Fraught in Motion

To tell our story, this marvelous travesty, as penance to purgatory; this mystic soul, this Protestant aura, this angst by hoary minds; this theologian, perfected by trials, as casual as a summer gust: this fragile patience; those passive ways; that sudden affection.  We shift through times, that suffrage of souls, kneeling at our vestibule—that inner hallway, our walls as filthy, fraught by carnage and prayers; this invisible texture, as confused to live, with smiles that cry of afflictions.  Oh our versicle; and oh our auras; and oh our ghosts; and oh our Christ; and oh our Love; and oh our deaths; to find You there, cringing such folly, at tears this near perfection; as claimed our souls, that suffrage of souls, as pure salvation; that outer economy, our Communion of Saints, our militant souls; that inner militia, this eclectic chase, as threading vibrations; this undulation, while dead to life, as living that sudden explosion; this spirit of guts, to hear her hunches, as something so nonchalant.  To tell that story, seated at a table, or a couch, or this chair of wilderness; to see Your face, beaming with ecstasy, as a sojourner of edification; this crying seed, as mis-adjusted, too powerful for converse: this waking Passion, as apophatic, drawn out as cataphatic—this sainted theologian, as running through mid-waves, at chase this cave, to find but cloth this sermon; while souls flourish, our mystic hearts—long overdue as flaming—that crying lark, or more this phoenix, as more this witty dove: our search for land, that rancorous odor, that issue of grieving; to come to terms, those proofs for Love, by nothing greater than that thought!  We die to live; and live to die; this casual confession; where hell inverts, this apparition, as eyes cursed to open—this flaming Love, this inner Ghost, this wickedness afforded high places; as captured this Soul, a soul-less entity, as we would ever know; for Us was imaged, as Us was touched, while Us are fraught in motion.